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Text: New Job (September 2013)
Brian Cochrane fidgeted in his seat in the windowless office. On the desk across from him, piles of paper cascaded over one another, growing into superpiles and multiplying over a set of glass trinkets lining the space between the keyboard and monitor. Finally, his host arrived, a woman in her 40s chomping the last bites of a bagel. "Very nice to see you, Mr. Coleman," said Mrs. Katherine Ingold, head of Human Resources for Wholesome Hills Marmalade, as she rifled through the assorted paper in front of her. "Cochrane," Brian corrected her, feeling almost embarrassed to have to do so. "Oh, of course," she chuckled to herself, "I don't know why I've been thinking Coleman all day. No wondeR I couldn't find you. Here you are." She handed Brian a three-page corner-stapled document. "There's been a mistake," Brian said, "I've been hired for the PR department, this says personal assistant?" "No mistake, I'm afraid," Mrs. Ingold said, peeking over the edge to confirm that there was, in fact, no mistake. "The economy being what it is, PR can't take anyone else on. They're keeping their summer intern. We had to shift you." "You can't just do this..." Brian said, stifling a certain level of rage, "I'm a PR guy. I moved my whole family out here from California. I'm not going to be some... gofer." "You're free to decline the offer," Mrs. Ingold said, "But the pay's the same, with very healthy benefits. Personal assistant to Mr. Hilliard is quite a prominent position in our company, and you were vetted more thoroughly for it than you were for the other one." Brian glared at Mrs. Ingold under his brow before turning his gaze to the document. The first page outlined his proposed responsibilities: he was to ensure that 98-year-old Chairman Emeritus Mervyn Hilliard had transportation to his various meetings, doctor's appointments, and personal affairs. He was also to prepare a regular report on the state of the business. He would also be responsible for any number of personal tasks, with the expectation that he would be available on a 24-7 basis for emergency contact and ensure that Mr. Hilliard's meals conformed to his strict diet. The next page listed the benefits, including full medical and dental coverage for his wife and children, three weeks vacation, quarterly bonuses, use of a company car, and should they so desire, full unconditional access to the Wholesome Hills Better Stronger Future Together Scholarship for both of his children. The pay was also on par with what he and his wife had been earning combined back in California. "All right," Brian sighed, "Show me to me office, or workspace, or whatever." "Top floor, of course," Mrs. Ingold said, happily offering her hand for a shake. Brian reluctantly took it, then saw himself out as she called out "Welcome aboard, Mr. Colecrane!" In the waiting area, he gripped the document in his tight fists and kicked the wall's baseboard so hard that a motel painting of a sunset fell to the floor and cracked its frame. Sheepishly, Brian made his way to the elevator. On the top floor of the Wholesome Hills Headquarters, the space between the elevator and the heavy wooden door to Mr. Hilliard's office was 85 paces, sparsely furnished and decorated only by the occasional cone-shaped art deco sconce. It was the physical manifestation of Hilliard's presence in the town of Fillmore: distant yet imposing. Few people in the tiny Colorado town knew the Hilliards in person, but all felt their influence, from the company they founded that was as old as the town itself, and the marmalade factory that employed hundreds of citizens, to the way they used their power to influence the course of its history. A chill went up Brian's spine as he crossed, feeling he was about to meet the devil himself. He had not been in Fillmore since he was 18 years old, and had not ever expected to return. Now, he was about to meet, and work for, the Marmalade King himself. Nervously, he opened the door and stepped in. "Mr. Hilliard?" he hiccupped, "I'm Brian. Brian Cochrane. Your new... assistant." Sitting at a grandiose desk was a 98-year-old man in a three-piece suit, hunched over and staring with stone silence into space like a gargoyle. "Um, where should I..." Silently, the old man lifted a finger and pointed slight left. Brian approached and stood at the left side of the desk. Mr. Hilliard cleared his throat lightly. Brian was unsure how to act. Hilliard cleared his throat again, more coarsely this time. Brian shifted on his feet and stepped with caution until he was standing just behind Mr. Hilliard's chair. He heard the old man exhale. Then he was still, and quiet. Brian just stood there, and let the hours pass. Category:Text Category:Cochrane family Category:Wholesome Hills Marmalade